Chapter Twelve

The head Cultivator, Kormar, hurries a group of ten candidates through the twisting hallways of the fortress. I try to remember the way, but each branching corridor looks the same as the last: all cold stone, dust, and mirrors.

“The Cultivators are charged with ensuring Tigang’s fields grow lush and weaving wards into the trees that protect our cities,” Kormar explains. They manage agriculture in Tigang, and without them, nothing would grow on our rocky soil. They are vital to our country’s survival, and I respect that.

Datu Kormar has an elegance about her, despite her dirt-stained clothing. The asog’s face glows a luminous shade of deep, polished walnut. The apron hung with gardening tools could be her armor; the shears and spades, her swords.

We head west, toward the ocean, and the halls brighten as we approach the glass outer wall. She stops at double doors carved with vines, and when she pushes them open, I drink in the moist air. Beyond the door is a rainforest in miniature.

Here, the rock was blasted away, and the glass wall was curved into a gently sloping roof. The room is so immense that its walls are hidden by a dark canopy of plants that would never survive a single winter in Tigang. Birds flash colors as they flee from us and scatter into the dark canopy. Wet leaves lick at my skin as if to taste me as I pass; the trees rustle as though they are whispering to one another.

A boy in a yellow tunic shoves past and pushes me into a cluster of leaves. Virian shoves him back and slings her arm through mine and Dayen’s like a bodyguard. “We’re going to beat those jerks.”

I hunch into myself with a grimace. I’m the last thing the other candidates should be worrying about.

At the center of the indoor rainforest grows a massive balete tree. Its trunks twine together, and vines drip from warded branches, stretching thirstily toward soil that is as black as coffee grounds.

“Astar planted this tree with a seed from Arawan. It was she who taught us immortal magic and founded our seven Baylan sects. We Cultivators tend to this tree, but this magic is not ours to control; it is yours.” Kormar points out white papers tucked into its nooks and crannies. “This tree has watched over the fortress since it was built. It has been nourished by the magic of the Baylan within these walls, and it will reveal the questions in your heart. To pass the test, you must answer three questions truthfully. The ruler of Tigang must have a pure soul, and this magic will judge yours.”

“I’ve heard that this balete was a Baylan that Omu cursed for a thousand years.” A girl stares at it wide-eyed. Kormar simply shakes her head with a small smile. I cannot tell if she is amused or sad. Either way, it isn’t a denial.

I look to Virian, but she stands confidently beside me with her hands on her hips. “Easy.” She grins. She gazes at the tree with awe and determination, not fear, but I shift from foot to foot on the soft, sinking dirt. The other candidates seem small and diminished beside it, and even the boy in the yellow tunic hangs back.

Kormar guides us apart and spaces the ten of us around the tree. Something beyond the tree’s hulking size is unnerving. The air feels so charged with energy that my fingers and toes prickle with pins and needles.

“You may begin!” Kormar shouts, and startled birds spill out of the tree trunk like a cloud of locusts. I huddle to the earth as wings and claws scratch my back. They disappear into the canopy around us, and when I get up, shaking, none of the other candidates are in sight.

Just birds. Just a tree. I take a deep breath and pluck a paper that’s wedged between two branches and unfurl it. At first the paper is blank, but as I glower, a line of words appears in my own handwriting.

What kind of Reyna would you be? it asks. Strangely, I hear the words in Teloh’s voice, and I picture the Guardian glaring.

I consider my answer with care. “Fair,” I say, and the tree rustles softly. True, the paper reveals.

A scream is followed by a thud, and I crane my neck to see what’s happening. Vines stretch, and I spot a flash of yellow. The boy who pushed me in the grove shrieks as he’s lifted into the balete’s branches by his wrists. My body tenses as I eye the branches, but they remain unmoving around me.

“Focus on your test, candidates!” Kormar cuts the boy free, and he hits the ground with a whimper. “There is nothing to worry about,” she says, but she braids twigs into patterns of protection when she thinks no one is watching, and glances at the tree nervously. I don’t have a good feeling about this, regardless of her reassurances.

I snatch a second paper, and words slowly ghost across its surface. Why did you come here? it asks in black ink.

“I want to be Reyna,” I whisper. For several breaths, nothing happens, but my question is replaced by a single word: Liar.

A root shoots out of the dirt and seizes me by the ankle. Its grip tightens and drags me toward the balete’s trunk. I drop the paper and struggle to untangle myself.

“To save my mother!” My stomach hits the ground, and I rake my hands to grasp hold of anything I can, but the roots writhe like snakes and I don’t find purchase. What else could it be? I kick at the tree as the soil opens around my legs and roots drag me downward. My knees disappear into a hole, and I scream. The roots wrap tightly around my legs, and the weight of the earth presses down, suffocating my body. Their hold tightens further and drags me deeper. My chin hits the dirt, and I flail my arms as the tree sweeps leaves overhead. It’s going to bury me alive. I’m going to die here. Struggling only sinks me faster into the loose earth.

“Because I’m tired of all the hateful people and the dusty roads. I want to prove I’m not as worthless as everyone thinks. Maybe I’m just being selfish, but I want more!”

I cough up dirt as the roots release me and tremble as I dig myself free. The worst part is, although I would deny my selfishness to everyone, including my sister, it’s true.

Vines surround me as I climb out of the pit I nearly died in. Bits of torn cloth peek out from between the knots on the balete’s trunk. Branches that look too much like arms turned to wood stretch out toward me as if there are people trapped inside, begging for help.

I’m not a pious person, but I start to pray. Heavenly Omu, I stutter.

The tree creaks and groans like an old ship, and it leans toward me. A vine rustles and pokes me in the back. Every muscle in my body locks into place. I search nearby, but neither Virian nor Dayen is in my line of sight. Every instinct screams flee, but I have only one question left to answer.

I snatch a paper above my head and count breaths to calm myself as I wait. Three breaths, twelve breaths, and finally words spread across the length of paper in dark red, as if written with blood. My mouth dries.

Why do you fear me?

“Who are you?” I whisper. The red letters slide down to the edge of the paper and gather into a bead of red liquid. It drips to the dirt, leaving the paper blank. I wait for another question, but none comes. My skin crawls as I wait for an answer.

Kormar walks in my direction. “Well done…”

But when I move toward her, a noose of vines slips over my head and lifts me to my toes. Those branches that looked so much like arms begin to writhe and reach for me. I can’t breathe; I can’t think. I wish I was home. I dangle, holding on to the vine, but I’m choking. I gasp for air and desperately try to slip my fingers between the vine and my throat.

The tree snatches everything that moves and plucks fleeing birds from the air. I struggle as the balete drags me toward its center. Kormar screams as the tree pulls another boy upside down by his ankles. He hammers his fists against the snaking vines, but they close over his mouth as the canopy swallows him. A vine whips around Kormar’s waist, and it tears her away from me. I can’t even scream. I sputter for air and kick my legs, but I can’t save her. I can’t save anyone.

Kormar twists and hacks at the vine with her shears, but roots reach out from the soil and pin her down. The screams echo against the glass wall, and leaves hiss together.

More vines tangle around my arms and waist. They whip around my ankles, squeeze the air out of my lungs, and my vision begins to slip. I am being drawn upward this time, into the canopy where the other boys met their end. Why is everything doomed to go wrong around me, when I have done nothing wrong? I save my last desperate breaths for the truth.

“I fear that I deserve to be cursed. That everything is my fault and there is no one else to blame,” I cry.

And then it stops. The vines drop away, and I fall to the ground in a quivering heap. Kormar rushes to my side and pulls me free of the roots knotted around my legs.

I cling to her and dig my nails into her arms as I steady myself, but she does not protest.

“This should not have happened,” she says, then looks me up and down. Her eyes are on my neck. I don’t know what she’s seen, but I shrink from her gaze. “Rest. Have a bath and something to eat. All will be well soon.” She gently pries my hand from her arm and dismisses me.

It’s me. It’s my fault. It’s my curse bringing everyone bad luck, I want to say, but I cannot move my mouth to admit it.